


Head First into the Abyss

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Reincarnation AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, im new to this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Most people have their revelations during high-school, usually in the later grades. That way they are old enough to not be completely innocent, but young enough to actually do something with the information.Not Thomas. No, Thomas Jones had his revelation at the age of 10.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this thing kinda just wrote itself. I was planning to do the individual characters and then put them all in college/university or something, but I might change that. I'm probably the least qualified person to write this, since I'm Australian. I apologise if you spell thungs differently, this is just typical Aussie/British spelling. And let me know if I accidentally use slang. Again, forgive me for spelling and if I accidentaly offend someone, let me know... Blah, Blah, Blah, Story:

Most people have their revelations during high-school, usually in the later grades. That way they are old enough to not be completely innocent, but young enough to actually do something with the information.  
Not Thomas. No, Thomas Jones had his revelation at the age of 10.  
His parents could only watch their son cry into a pillow, thrown through memory after memory, flinching away from touch.  
They don't know who he used to be. Thomas won't tell them.  
Thomas, at the age of ten, didn't understand much of it. He did so many bad things. He had slaves, he hurt women. Why did he do that? He had heard the name in history, sure. But he didn't really know that much. He does now.  
He threw up and his parents hugged him as he sobbed into his mother's chest, begging for forgiveness. 

 

Years later, he still refuses to talk to his parents about it. Not even a name. He hardly sleeps, scared of the nightmares haunting his dreams. He hardly eats, throwing up most of what he does. His parents don't know what to do about it. He hears them talking about him at night when they think he must be asleep.  
Spoiler: he isn't.  
Watching his parents have yet another argument about him, he pulls his sleeves over his hands to hide the cuts on his wrists. They don't need to know about that. That's his own business.  
He distances himself from his few friends, preferring to read quietly by himself. They don't want to be friends with someone like you, a tiny voice in his head tells him, you're just like Jefferson. Scum. Racist. Sexist. Slaver. Rapist.  
He has thought of just ending it. He would just need to cut a bit deeper. But thinking about his parents is the only thing that stays his hand.  
His parents don't know what to do. His teachers are equally stumped.  
As he goes through high school, more people have their revelations.  
No one that he knows.  
He doesn't know whether this is a good thing or not, as a part of him longs for his old friend, if only so he wouldn't be alone.  
Why was Madison even friends with you, the voice whispers into his ear. It grew to sound more like Washington's annoying little pet every day. He deserved so much better than you. He silently agrees.  
Agreeing with Hamilton is what scares him more than anything else.  
Other people are happy with their past lives. Famous people, factory workers, that random author no one has heard of that wrote a random book about people turning into rivers, whatever. Even people with boring past lives are happy with them.  
Though there are a few new souls sprinkled among them, as the years go on the chances of being an old soul increases. Everyone gets a second chance. A lot even get a third life. Someone in Thomas' class brags about having ten.  
If anyone asks, Thomas just pretends to be a new soul. It's easier that way. No questions about his previous life. No one worshipping him for something he hates, no one hating him for something he can't control.  
Pretending to be a new soul works. Until it doesn't. Until they test you. They can't usually tell WHO you were, but they can tell if you are a new or old soul, and usually when you were living. They can even tell if you remember it or not. Then they put it up on a board for everyone to see.  
'What a violation of privacy' Thomas thinks. He doesn't really speak much anymore. He has found that ever since his revelation, he has tended to think and write using longer words and terms. His teachers seem to notice this too, often remarking on essays, annoyed at having to use a dictionary to look up what his words mean.

 

The test results come in. No new souls in his class, and everyone knows who they were in past lives. His history teacher decides that it would be a good idea to bring it up. Thomas profusely disagrees. But, of course, when has anything ever gone Thomas' way in this life?  
"Who wants to share first?" Thomas doesn't really pay attention as everyone tells the class about their past, lost in his thoughts.  
"Thomas. THOMAS!" He snaps back to reality to see the whole class looking at him. He raises an eyebrow at the teacher who sighs. "It's your turn to share, Thomas," she tells him and a thousand thoughts flash through his mind at once. All of them against him telling them. He shakes his head.  
"I'd rather not share my previous life with this group of strangers, it is something quite personal that I'd prefer to keep to myself." He tells her. She looks like she has lost her patience.  
"Thomas, all these people have shared their lives with you, why are you being selfish here?" Thomas winces minutely at his teacher's words. "There is plenty that we could all learn from you, since you have the oldest memories by nearly a century, and you lived through the revolutionary war and the founding of America. You could help all of your peers pass this class, yet you say nothing?" Everyone is glaring at him, obviously unhappy with the thought of failing, but Thomas stands his ground.  
"Excuse me, but no matter how beneficial it may be, I will not share such a matter of confidentiality with my peers," he snaps. "It is a closely guarded secret that I have not confided to my parents, yet you expect me to confide in strangers who have qualms against violating privacy?" He demanded. The teacher looked taken aback at his answer, not knowing how to respond. Except with:  
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlightening me in detention?" She asks him coldly.  
"I believe that I have already established that I will not be confiding my secret to anyone. Ne m'as-tu pas entendu, ou es-tu trop bête pour comprendre?" He asks her, rising an eyebrow. (did you not hear me, or are you just too stupid to understand?)  
"I do not speak French, Thomas," she snaps, all hints of kindness gone from her face, "But I can tell that it was rude. Detention at lunch."  
"How outrageous! Detention over something you do not understand? It could have been a compliment for all you know, and you would be subjecting me to unnecessary detention." He says, annoyed.  
"As you seem to have forgotten, Mr. Jones, we are no longer living in a time where you can talk down to me simply because I'm a black woman-" She is cut off by the door slamming behind Thomas as he leaves.  
Outside, Thomas runs through the school halls until he finds what he is looking for. A small alcove that hides him from every angle except one. Not many people know it even exists. He doesn't know of anyone at the school that does. He ducks into the alcove and starts focusing on taking deep breaths and not throwing up.  
In, out. In, out. In, in, in, whereistheoxygen, out, out, out, out, can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe, in, out.  
His doesn't know how long he's been there, though he vaguely remembers hearing the bell for the last class. He ignored it, of course. The microphone pages him to return to class, but he ignores it. He doesn't want to go to English. The debating always reminds him of the cabinet meetings and of that insufferable germ that used have to work with. Ew.  
He hears people moving around outside, and realises that people have come to look for him. He starts breathing quieter, not wanting to be found. If they find him here, they will know where to find him next time. The bullies will get to him at lunch. He grips the wall to centre himself, already on the brink of another panic attack.  
He takes a deep breath, before taking a peek out. The way is clear. He sneaks out, careful to move as silently as possible.  
He decides that he will just have to sneak to his locker as far as he can. He is to smart to head for the doors, he knows they will find him trying to escape, and he would just be in more trouble. If he is found near the alcove, they will know where to find him next time. The bathrooms are close enough to the exit that it would look like he is trying to escape. Going to his locker will get him caught, yes, but out of all the options, this is the least worst one.  
He is surprised to have made it so far before being caught. He is only a corridor away before he is found. He had started acting as if he had been walking aimlessly through the halls the whole time.  
Turns out they had sent the whole of 10th grade out to find him. Even the other class, which surprised him, but he decided not to dwell on it. Nothing good would come of it, he was sure.  
He was sent to the principal's office, his parents were called, he was given a lot of detention, yada, yada, yada. Whatever, who cares. Until the principal said something outrageous.  
"You have to talk to our counsellor about it."  
That's right. The teacher was suggesting he do the thing that he was so against he walked out of class. He got detention, he knew he would get detention for not doing it. And now the principal is suggesting he do that same thing? He may have lived a long past life, but he is still a rebellious 16 year old. He opens his mouth to respond, but the principal holds up her hand to silence him, and he closes it, allowing her to speak.  
"Mrs Wellington won't tell anyone who you were. If you were Hitler, she wouldn't tell anyone. You can trust her. If you don't speak to her tomorrow, I will have to suspend you. If you still haven't spoken to her by next month without a reason, we will have to review your enrolment at this school." The looks his parents give him squashes down any more protest, and Thomas nods.  
"Fine. Book me in at the next available appointment." He doesn't like it. He hates doing it. But for his parents, he would do anything. Weak, disgusting, useless. Can't do anything right.  
"Thank yu, Thomas," his mother says quietly. She wants to hug him, she really does. But Thomas can't seem to bear physical contact anymore. Ever since his revelation, he has been distant. She often wonders who he could have been, but there are just too many people. He might have been a slave. A nameless nobody in his time. Disgusting.


	2. Chapter 2

Turns out Mrs Wellington isn't very busy. The next available appointment is at the start of the next day. 'Well, at least it's a Wednesday, halfway to the weekend,' he thinks. 

He arrives at the school counseler's office and steels himself before knocking. The door opens to reveal a short lady with kind brown eyes who welcomes him in. 

He walks in. There is a small room with couches, bean bags and a few tables. Warm colour sceme obviously intended to make people feel more at ease. It worked a tiny bit. 0.00001% worked. There is a desk shoved in the corner where Mrs Wellignton sits, observing him with her warm brown eyes through her tick glasses.

"Take a seat." Her voice is as warm as her eyes, making him trust her a bit. Only a tiny bit. He is only about 0.01% reassured. Really. He sits on one of the bean bags, locking the door on his way. She either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it. She comes and sits on a nearby bean bag. "I have no more appointments today, so this can take as long as it needs to. We have time," she tells him in her warm voice.

Thomas swallows and nods.

"You were born in the 1740s and died in the 1820s?" She asks him, curiously. He nods. "We may know each other. I used to be Martha Washington." Thomas freezes. He did know her. He visited her after her husband died and she described it as one of the worst days of her life. Second only to her second husband's death. He pales rapidly.

"Yes, of course, Lady Washington," He says stiffly, "we have met." He does not offer anything else. "I require some time to properly process this. May I?" He slips back into the old formalities in his panic. Martha nods.

"You may." She stands up and walks over to her desk. "You still need to talk, but I will be here." Thomas barely notices her, as his mind races frantically trying to grasp a coherent thought. He stands up and starts pacing, the action helping his thought process. He doesn't know how long he paces for. Finally, he gathers his thoughts. He stops and looks straight into Martha's ever observing eyes.

"You want to know who I am? Here's a hint: my visit to your residence was the second worst day of your life." He watches as her eyes widen a tiny bit and her mouth forms a small 'oh'.

"Jefferson." He flinches and turns away from her, the name bringing up memories of... that. 

"There you go, you can google my life story if you don't already know. Can I go now?" He askes her, desperate to get out of the room, panic consuming him.

"The point was for you to talk to me. You've hardly said anything at all. Talk." He looks at her with uncertain eyes, full of panic and misery. "You need to let it out, Thomas, before it consumes you. You can trust me."

"He did so many horrible things, I did so many horrible things," he whispers, "how could I even justify that? How could I ever think that was okay?" His voice rising. "I was a f**king rapist what part of that is okay? And people actually use my ideas as their arguments? People think that I'm actually worth studying? Comment pourraient-ils?" His language slipped into French as he got more agitated. "Pourquoi quelqu'un pourrait-il penser que ce que j'ai fait était correct? Juste même? Je l'ai violée, comment est-ce que ça se passe?" (How could they? Why would anyone think that what I did was okay? Right even? I f**king raped her, how is that ever considered alright?) He took a breath before continuing in English

"What was I supposed to tell my parents? That their 10 year old son had raped people?"

"Ten? And Thomas, that wasn't you. That was Thomas Jefferson," he flinched again hearing the name, "you're Thomas Jones. You're not him." Her eyes were sincere, he almost believed her. Almost. He chose to address her question and ignore the second part for the time being.

"I had my revelation when I was ten." He closed his eyes, trying to keep memories of his past life at bay.

"Thomas, the point of the reincarnation is so that we get a second chance. Most of us choose to become a better version of our past self. You can't continue to lock it up inside, you need to deal with the memories. I think you got one glimpse of who you were and shoved away any more memories. Am I right?" Thomas nods. "What do you actually remember?" 

"Enough to make most classes easy and Hamilton." He answers her.

"What do you remember about your personal life?" She asks sighing.

"Madison, Sally, slaves, tomatoes, dogs and that annoying headache that followed after an encounter with Hamilton." He rattles off. 

"Not a very long list." Martha observes, ignoring the insults aimed at the man she and George had considered a son. "You need to stop pushing the memories away." She thinks Thomas is too small. Tall, of course, but extremely thin. He looks too pale, and is slightly hunched over and a quick look at his wrist shows her scars that he shouldn't have. His eyes are sunken in with bigger bags than even Alexander had, this observation worrying her even more. She had to ask, right? "When was the last time you slept well? You have bigger bags than Alexander ever had." She watches with a hint of satisfaction when Thomas' lip curls at the thought of being compared to Hamilton. 

"I believe I cannot recall when last I slept," he admits, looking exhausted. He looked like he could fall asleep at any moment.

"Well, you look like death," she remarks, "lay down and get some sleep, Thomas. And don't run away from your memories." Thomas looks like he is about to object, but she raises an eyebrow, challenging him to say something. He slumps in defeat and works to make himself as comfortable as he could possibly get, before instantly falling into a deep slumber.

Martha looks at him, actually pitying him. Imagine that. Martha Washington pitying Thomas Jefferson. 'No,' she corrects herself, 'not Jefferson. The two are so similar, yet so different.'

She sends and email to the office, letting them know that she will have Thomas for the rest of the day, before going back to work on her computer. She is tempted to send an email to George about Thomas, but decides not to. He was trusting her in this, after all.

After about an hour, she hears small noises from the sleeping teenager, obviously caught in a bad dream. Or memory. She decides not to disturb him just yet, it was important that he knew. 

Another hour passes and the small noises turn to screams. This time, she intervenes, waking Thomas up. He flinches away from her and curls up into a ball, crying into his legs. Martha decides to keep her distance. After a few minutes he calms down, and she hands him a box of tissues.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks him. He shakes his head. "Go back to sleep." Thomas just looks at her with a horrified expression. "Yes, Thomas. Go back to sleep." He looked like he really didn't want to. "Go back to sleep or I will drug you." She says sweetly causing Thomas to look wary and lie back down, falling asleep in seconds.

Martha sighs and goes back to her very important work. She puts in one earpiece this time so that she can hear the bell when the customers show up wanting sushi and tea. 

She only has to wake him and threaten to drug him a few more times before she realises that there are only ten minutes left in the day.. She doesn't want to wake him up as he finally begins to sleep peacefully, but she knows she has to. She gently wakes him up and he sits up. 

"You need to sleep more," she tells him, "it's not healthy."

"I don't want my parents to hear me scream myself raw," he says, looking at her with sad eyes, "they already worry enough about me." Martha thinks for a moment before hesitantly continuing.

"I haven't told him, and I won't without your permission, but if you tell George, maybe you can use our guest room. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." Thomas looked hesitant, anxiously chewing his lip, and she knew he really wanted to. There was something stopping him. "Your parents won't mind and you would be no hassle. You need someone you know that you can talk to, and we won't mind if you wake us up." She tries to convince him, but the worry in his eyes only dissipate a tiny bit. "What has you so worried?" She asks him. He mumbles something. "I didn't hear you." 

"President Washington and I aren't on the best of terms, I don't think he would want me staying over." He looked down, "I don't blame him," he said even quieter. She represses a sigh, knowing it would be counter-productive. 

"I know him better than you. He will accept you," she reassures him, "And if he doesn't I will convince him." 

"Isn't it against the rules for students to have anything other than a professional relationship with their teachers?" He asks.

"I'm not your teacher," she says slyly.

"Ok," says Thomas with a small smile, the level of trust in his eyes astounding Martha, "you can tell him. I would like to come over. As long as no one mentions the ignorant paper rat." The bell rings, and he begins to walk out.

"And Thomas!" She calls, causing him to pause with a hand on the door and turn to look at her. "Talk to them, eat something, get some sleep and don't be scared of your memories." He nods and walks out. She sighs and gets ready for an interesting conversation with her husband at dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas visits the 'Wellingtons'

Martha looks at her husband accross the dinner table, pondering how to bring up the topic.

"Martha," George's voice breaks through her thoughts, "you've been acting strangely. What do you want to tell me?" She bites her lip.

"You know that boy I told you about? The one that was going to see me again?" He nods looking confused. "I found out his past life. He said it was all right to tell you."

"Okay?" George looks uncertain, most definitely wondering where she was going with this. "Who was he, then?"

"Jefferson. Thomas Jefferson." George dropped his fork in surprise.

"Jefferson? As in Secretary-of-State Jefferson? 3rd-president-of-the-US Jefferson? I-hate-Alexander-Hamilton Jefferson? That one?" He looks at her, shock all over his face, a hint of anger in his eyes.

"Yes. That Jefferson. But he's different. I don't think he eats or sleeps, he is too thin, the bags under his eyes are bigger that even Alexander's got," George looked skeptical at this but Martha just ignores him, "and he has scars on his wrists. I can take a guess where they are from. He had his revelation at 10, George." Worry creeps into his expression and he opens his mouth to say something, but Martha cuts him off. "He was in with me all day because he fell asleep. Then he woke up screaming and wouldn't sleep until I threatened to drug him." George raises an eyebrow and she waves him off. "I think we should invite him over. I don't think he told his parents anything. He took one look at his memories and shoved them away. Locked them up. It just isn't healthy, George."

"I trust you, Martha. If you say he's alright, he's alright. You can invite him over, he can take a guest room. And if he wakes us up, so be it. Anything else?" Martha inwardly sighed in relief at his acceptance.

"He said that Alexander was a banned topic," she tells him, "seems to be one of the few things he actually remembered." George thinks about his son and decides that bringing him up would only be negative. 

"Understandable." He nods.

\---

The next day, Thomas gets an invitation to go to the "Wellington's" on Friday night. He can stay for the weekend or go home early. He decides that he will choose on the Saturday, but bring clothes for the rest of it, just in case. His parents accept the invitation when he mentions that he knew them from a past life. They are relieved that he has finally found some one that he might be able to talk to. He still hasn't talked to them, of course. He knows he probably never will.

\---

George, in truth, only really accepted because it was Martha asking him. Anyone else and he would have said no. The idea of heving Jefferson over left him wary and on guard. He settled for indifference.

Until he saw the boy.

He was indeed, as Martha said, extremely thin, more than healthy. He did actually have bags bigger than Alexander ever got, even after staying up for even a week, leaving George to wonder when the teen had last slept well. There was a look in his eyes that no teenager should ever get. He found himself pitying him instead of hating him.

Martha gave him a pointed look when they got home and he cleared his throat. 

"Thomas." He held out a hand. 

"Sir." Thomas carefully shakes George's hand, as if afraid he would try something, worrying him. Did Thomas really expect that?

Dinner is quiet that night, Martha having to remind Thomas to eat something.

As soon as it finishes, they show Thomas to his room and Martha tells him in no uncertain terms that if he did not get to sleep she would have to drug him, surprising (and scaring) George a bit. 

Thomas falls asleep as soon as he lies down, curing into a ball. George realises that the poor kid must have been absolutely exhausted. The couple quietly exit to get back to their normal after-dinner activities. 

About an hour later, they hear muffled screams coming from where Thomas is sleeping as he has a nightmare. No, George realises upon seeing him, memories. No wonder he doesn't seem to sleep much.

Martha quietly wakes Thomas up and he flinches away from them, curling up tighter, his fingernails digging into his arms drawing blood. George gently loosens the boy's hands, glad when he doesn't flinch. A minute later, Thomas is asleep again, passing out from pure exhaustion. George and Martha exchange a worried look at the state of the poor boy sleeping in their guest room.

"He trusts you." Martha's voice disturbs the silence that has fallen over them. George shakes his head, trying to deny it, but Martha interrupts him again. "He didn't flinch when you touched him, he actually seemed to relax a bit. Goodnight." Martha exits the room, leaving George to ponder this. 

He looks at the sleeping boy, remebering his flinch at even a handshake. Now, only a couple of hours later, he's trusting him in a state of vunerability. 'What changed?' He wonders. 'Did he remember something to do with me to make me trust him?' 

Thomas starts making noises of discomfort in his sleep, his face screwing up into a pained look. George neels next to him and gently runs his hand through Thomas' hair, watching as his face relaxes slightly.

George smiles, remembering raising Martha's children. None of them were reincarnations, though, which turned out to be a good thing, looking back. 

He pulls the blankets up around the sleeping teen, not letting his mind dwell on tucking in Jefferson of all people, and quietly follows his wife to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who commented and gave me Kudos. It's really quite encouraging.


End file.
